Mal de Mer
by AVMabs
Summary: In which Ethan forgets to swallow his pride. Cue shenanigans. Only, they're not really shenanigans, and Ethan's not enjoying them, and Connie is enjoying them even less.


**Under here are 8534 solid words of Appendicitis. This is potentially the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, and I really must apologise for that.**

 **There is a massive warning for graphic descriptions of vomiting in the second and third paragraphs, so if you are emetophobic, please skip those! There are other mentions of vomiting throughout; however neither of those is anywhere near as graphic. If you are very emetophobic, I would recommend you pass over this story.**

 **Many thanks to the lovely TheVeryStuffOfLife, OblivionOkay, HethanHardy, Wowstars, and the rest of the wee crowd who don't have accounts here but have been very supportive and lovely through this!**

 **I think that's me done for here – enjoy!**

Ethan pulled his gloves on. He was certain that there was nothing wrong with Mrs Myers in Cubicle Seven other than a serious case of attention-seeking, but there was nothing he could do but ensure he was right. If Holby's Emergency Department got a bad write up in the press because of his ignorance, there would be no end to Mrs Beauchamp's anger and Ethan still wasn't convinced that she wouldn't turn him into a toad at the first sign of malpractice. He pulled the curtain back.

He could hardly see Mrs Myers' hand for the depth of it down her throat. She had positioned herself over a kidney bowl and vomit was trickling down her arm and off her elbow, dripping onto the cardboard. Ethan swivelled around to Lofty, whose gawp did not quite hold his mouth as wide open as much as Mrs Myers' efforts held hers open.

Giving himself a moment to regain his bearings, Ethan closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath through his mouth, before opening them to find Mrs Myers staring up at him like a deer caught in headlights, a final trickle of vomit running down the right side of her chin. Somewhere beside him, Ethan could hear Lofty pulling paper towel upon paper from the dispenser – with which he would wipe the vomit off of Mrs Myers' elbow, Ethan thought. He had never felt so relieved not to be a nurse.

He clenched his fist around his clipboard, and his knuckles turned white. A dull throb of nausea echoed around his navel at the sight of it. He glanced at Lofty and then back at Mrs Myers and forced a smile. "Your – um," he trailed of and had to take a deep breath. "Your bloods have come back clear but we'd – we'd like to run a couple more tests, please."

Mrs Myers nodded, a shudder running down her head and neck. Ethan nodded at Lofty, who had finished cleaning Mrs Myers off, and closed the curtain.

Ethan leaned on his elbows at the nurse's station, glancing up at Lofty, who looked distinctly rabbit-like under the halogen lights. "I think this could be a-a little more than just attention-seeking," he said.

Lofty levelled his eyes to Ethan's forehead. "Psych referral?"

"Yeah," Ethan breathed, and nodded. "Do you think you could explain the process to her – get her consent?" He hadn't realised how easily affected he was, he thought as he brought a hand to his stomach and rested it there.

"Makes you feel sick, doesn't it?" said Lofty. "I-I-I don't mean that she's – I mean, she's ill – I just…" Lofty trailed off.

Ethan chanced him a smile – he was pleased not to be the only person nauseated by it. "It does," he agreed.

 **O**

Ethan laid a set of patient notes down at the nurse's station, took his glasses off, and rubbed hard at his eyes. His stomach continued its faint protest, and he felt as though the rest of him might be about to follow. He released a long, slow breath and then slowly brought his head back up and replaced his glasses. He almost wished he hadn't. Unbeknownst to him, his brother had sidled up to the nurse's station whilst he was wallowing and was now giving him The Look.

Ethan snapped his head up to look at him, pursing his lips. "What is it, Caleb?"

Caleb maintained his glare – which by Ethan's standards was far too intense for the situation at hand – and laid a hand on the table in front of him. "You look a bit rough."

"Do I?" Better to feign ignorance, Ethan thought, than to fall prey to Cal's odd brand of incessancy.

Cal's frowned yet further and held The Glare – they would be coming onto a new record for how long he could hold it if he didn't stop soon, Ethan thought. "You're pale," he said, squinting at Ethan's face.

Ethan cocked his head and sighed. "Gross Munchausen." He stared down at the notes. "Oh, and I've breached twice today, which means that Mrs Beauchamp is going to have my guts for garters, so please do forgive me if I look _pale_."

When Ethan next looked up at Cal, his lips had curled into a faint smile, and Ethan relaxed slightly.

Hours later, when Mrs Myers had been taken upstairs and Lofty and cleaned the cubicle and Ethan's stomach was – well – _worse_ , Ethan pulled open the curtain to Cubicle Four.

"Mr… Willis?"

The man on the bed's head bobbed up to look at Ethan and then bobbed down to his arm, which did look rather swollen. Ethan smiled at him and then edged closer.

Lofty rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "Alright, this is Pete Willis, 62, self-presented to the ED after a nasty fall off his conservatory roof."

Ethan gave the man a brief but kind closed-lip smile and walked around to the man's right side. "Hello, Mr Willis. My name's Ethan – I'm a doctor. Are you in any pain?"

Mr Willis stared up at Ethan as though he was mad. "My arm's twice its normal size!"

Ethan gave a quiet laugh and – just to make sure it wasn't inappropriate – glanced up at Lofty. He too had a bemused yet reassuring smile on his face, and he squeezed Mr Willis' shoulder. "Scale of one to ten?" asked Ethan.

The man tensed his shoulders in imitation of a shrug, and Lofty removed his hand. "Seven?" he groaned, and then – "no, no – it's an eight."

Ethan smiled again – at Mr Willis and then up at Lofty. "I'll get you some pain relief." He squinted at Mr Willis' chart. "Is this all up to date? No allergies I need to know about?"

Mr Willis shook his head and winced. "Just get me some pain relief, would you?"

"Right, yes," said Ethan. He turned to retrieve the medication, and his stomach seemed to turn as well. He took a deep breath, merciful that he was facing away from Lofty and Mr Willis. When sufficiently assured that he wouldn't have to make a dash for the lavatory, he turned back to Mr Willis, ignoring the faint pulsing over his midriff. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to give you some morphine which, _hopefully_ , should start making you feel better quite soon."

He reached for Mr Willis's arm and flinched back when the man yelped from the bed. "Bloody hell!" shouted Mr Willis. He was looking at Ethan as though Ethan had just stabbed him.

"S-sorry," said Ethan, though he couldn't quite figure out what he'd done wrong. He stared at Lofty, and he too had the expression of someone who had just witnessed a stabbing.

"That's his bad arm," said Lofty.

Ethan looked down again. It was indeed a striking shade of purple, and Ethan's mouth fell open slightly. He looked up at Mr Willis. "I'm so sorry, Mr Willis."

Mr Willis scoffed. One of his teeth was slightly blackened, the rest a mottled yellow. "Do you even know what you're doing?" He turned to Lofty, his brow furrowed almost all the way into the bridge of his nose. "Is he new?"

Lofty glanced over at Ethan and then gave Mr Willis a nervous smile. "He's-he's not new, no."

"I want to see someone in charge," Mr Willis decreed.

Ethan sighed – just quietly enough for Mr Willis not to hear him. "I'll go and get Mrs Beauchamp," he said. He turned from the cubicle and drew the curtain. A new sense of dread had joined the throb in the pit of his stomach. Mrs Beauchamp was definitely going to turn him into a toad now, and he could do nothing to stop her.

Ethan stood before Mrs Beauchamp's door. This could be compared to purgatory – office purgatory – and Mrs Beauchamp was God and she was about to pass judgement on him and because this was Mrs Beauchamp he was going to go straight to Hell. He gulped. One hand knocked twice against the wood on the door, and Ethan closed his eyes for a minute, half hoping he wouldn't hear the…

"Come in?"

Any vague hope Ethan had been holding rushed out of his body in one solemn breath as he pushed open the door. "Mrs Beauchamp," he stammered.

Mrs Beauchamp glanced up from an open folder. She didn't look too scary yet, and perhaps that made Ethan shake further in his boots. Trainers, really. "Dr Hardy," she said. "I was just about to come and find you; if you've come to apologise about the breaches make sure there are no more today and we'll let it go."

Ethan picked at a soft bit of skin on his left thumb. "It's – um – it's not about the breaches." He paused. "Sorry, Mrs Beauchamp."

He well and truly had Mrs Beauchamp's attention now, and if Ethan had ever been scared of anything before, the sight of Mrs Beauchamp holding back a snarl by pursing her lips as her hair fell to the desk surface and her glower intensified. "What's happened?" she asked and – to her credit – maintained a perfectly composed demeanour.

"A patient would like to complain to you." Mrs Beauchamp's glower softened for a moment as her eyes took on a questioning glint. "About me – I made a mistake. I'm so sorry Mrs Beauchamp."

Mrs Beauchamp's sigh rivalled all those that Ethan had ever sighed. She rubbed at her forehead and then pushed her chair back. "Right, show me to the patient."

Ethan fumbled with the door. His hands weren't shaking – he wasn't _that_ scared – but he'd been feeling more and more fuzzy and disoriented all day and was beginning to wonder if perhaps Mrs Myers had not been the cause of his upset after all. The walk to the cubicle was awkward and stilted, with Ethan trying to make as little conversation as possible and Mrs Beauchamp more than happy to oblige him. As he reached for the powder blue curtain, Ethan stared up at Mrs Beauchamp and gave a nervous laugh and felt nothing but contempt for her heels, which added _inches_ onto her, standing her inches above him. He swiped open the curtain.

"That's – um – that's Mr Willis," said Ethan.

Mr Willis was staring up at Lofty, whose expression said that he pitied and was exasperated by both Ethan and Mr Willis in equal measure. "I've just administered 10 of morphine," said Lofty to Mrs Beachamp, "prescribed by Dr Hardy."

"Not before _Dr Hardy_ grabbed my broken arm!" shouted Mr Willis. "He doesn't know what he's doing!"

Mrs Beauchamp blinked at Mr Willis, and then turned her attention to Ethan. "Is this true, Dr Hardy?" she asked.

Ethan's gaze turned to Lofty for some amount of moral support, given in the form of the 'bad luck, mate' stare before he turned back to Mrs Beauchamp. "Yes, it's true." He cast his gaze to the ground. "Sorry."

"Go and wait for me in my office," decreed Mrs Beauchamp.

Ethan ducked out of the funeral and began to head towards Mrs Beauchamp's office. He was a lamb to the slaughter, and once Mrs Beauchamp was done with him it would be Silence of the Lambs and – oh, God – did Mrs Beauchamp eat people. Ethan's stomach thrummed its protest at the thought, and Ethan raised a hand to silence it. It was not silenced, for apparently it was not a lamb.

"You walking to your death, Nibbles?"

Ethan's heart sank. Cal was the last person he wanted to see right now. "Could be," he murmured. "If I'm not out by a quarter to seven you can assume Mrs Beauchamp has strung me up with her washing."

Cal narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure it's just that?"

"Perfectly sure, thank you," said Ethan, and walked on.

Somehow, the office door seemed scarier when he didn't have to knock. He stood before it. It was taunting him. It was _actually_ taunting him, with its 'Mrs Connie Beauchamp' on the plaque – the inconspicuous plaque in uniform white and uniform blue – and its thick fake wood and the handle that eventually _he'd_ have to push. He edged closer to that dreadful handle and the dreadful window, and then flinched back before realising that he was staring into his reflection. All of the physics Ethan knew was gone, replaced by a deep, intense hatred of the powers that had once long ago decided that reflections were a wonderful thing to be implemented at all costs, and they'd just done it to scare him. He gripped his elbow with his hand. He just needed to work up the gall to go in, and then –

"Dr Hardy?"

Ethan flinched and whipped around, half prepared to relax in relief. He didn't. Mrs Beauchamp was standing behind him, a hardened expression on her face, though Ethan thought he saw the slightest – no, he didn't. "M-Mrs Beauchamp."

She crossed her arms. "Go in," she said.

Ethan laid his hand on the door handle and desperately hoped that Mrs Beauchamp hadn't noticed how he was trembling. He stepped into the room and held the door open for Mrs Beauchamp. Her eyes flickered in his direction. "Thank you, Dr Hardy." She took a seat behind her desk, and gestured at the one opposite her. "Sit down."

Ethan did so, bracing his hands on his knees. "Mrs Beauchamp…"

She raised a hand to silence him, looking him so dead in the eye that he couldn't bring himself to break the contact. "Dr Hardy," she said, and he clenched his hands into nervous fists on his knees. "Before we start, is there anything I should be aware of?"

Ethan shook his head.

"Okay," said Mrs Beauchamp. "Surely I don't need to tell you that you've made a lot of errors today."

"No," muttered Ethan, and broke the stare. He stared down at his lap and rubbed at an invisible spot of dirt on his thumb.

"Too many, Ethan," said Mrs Beauchamp. "Breaches are one thing, but inattentiveness is completely unacceptable."

Ethan nodded. "I know. I'm sorry."

Mrs Beauchamp rubbed her forehead. Ethan felt distinctly guilty for having given her a headache. "You're lucky," said Mrs Beauchamp. "Mr Willis has agreed not to file a formal complaint, but if I _ever_ see you working at a standard this low again I will issue a verbal warning on the spot, understand?"

"Yes, Mrs Beauchamp," said Ethan.

Connie leaned back in her chair and picked up her pen. "You can go. I expect better work tomorrow."

Ethan stood up and was dismayed, though not entirely surprised to find that his legs were trembling. The door, at least, was much less daunting from the inside of Connie's office. He made sure to close the door as quietly as he could. A wave of pain rolled over his abdomen, such that he stopped walking for a moment and leaned against the wall. He was, at least, merciful that he had left Mrs Beauchamp's office before his stomach had rebelled. He shut his eyes tight, waiting for it to pass. Soon enough, it had dulled into a throb. He breathed deeply though his mouth, hoping that Cal wasn't-

"Ethan?"

Hopes dashed. Ethan opened his eyes. "Sorry, Cal. I'm coming."

Cal started forwards and rested a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Ethan. Did it go okay; do you need me to…"

"Cal," Ethan cut him off. "It's fine, I just…" He sighed and trailed off. "I feel a bit under the weather. Can we just go home, please?"

"Yeah," said Cal, and for a split second Ethan thought he had escaped the barrage of misplaced concern from his brother. "Should I call a taxi?"

"I'm fine, Cal." Ethan took a deep breath. "I can walk. The air will help, I think."

Caleb didn't look convinced, but Ethan was pleased that he seemed from hence to let the issue go, though he hovered behind Ethan as if he thought Ethan was some sort of a fair and swooning maiden. As much as it irked him, Ethan deigned not to argue against it for ease of his poor addled head.

By the time they reached home, Ethan felt as if the fluids in his stomach were swilling around. He'd almost asked Cal if they could stop off at the newsagent so that that he could use the loos, but alas – that would have broken the façade. Something was about to break now, and Ethan hoped that it would be the façade before the bough as with a trembling key-hand he missed the lock. A warm hand – too warm – making contact with his and taking the key was a welcome relief. He leaned against the wall and pressed his hand to his mouth, breathing too heavily and too fast.

Hands grabbed his shoulders and half bundled, half pushed him through the door and towards the bathroom, and Ethan was mildly surprised to find himself – once he had finished retching – staring up at Caleb's 'kindly-concerned' face.

"Are you okay?" said Cal, and knelt down. He leaned over and flushed the loo, then pressed a hand to Ethan's forehead. Ethan, much to his own surprise - let alone Caleb's – let him. Cal's hand was cool and dry against his forehead where against his hand it had been entirely too warm. "Yeah," Cal said, relocating his hand to Ethan's shoulder, "you definitely have a temperature."

Ethan grunted. He could have told Cal that without all the hassle. "Help me stand up?"

Cal snaked an arm around Ethan's shoulders and tried to hoist him into a stand, stopping as soon as he'd started when Ethan made a tiny noise of pain. "Ethan?"

"I'm fine," said Ethan, through gritted teeth, and then gripped onto the bathroom sink to try and stand up, though he had the body strength of a new-born colt. He glanced up at Cal, whose worried face seemed to have gone into overdrive, and gave a much deliberated blink.

Cal snapped into action and – with both Cal and the sink's support – Ethan managed to fold out into a stand.

Feeling considerably better having rinsed his mouth out and brushed his teeth, Ethan edged out of Cal's grip. His stomach still throbbed, but now that he'd been sick and the nausea had lessened, it seemed more bearable, in spite of the fact that the pain was only intensifying by the hour. A brief thought of telling Cal made acquiescence with Ethan, but he discarded it – Cal would only worry.

"I'm going to try and sleep this off," said Ethan.

Cal gave an approving nod and laid a hand on Ethan's back. "Do you need any help?"

Ethan stared up at Cal, his brow furrowed and his mouth slightly open. " _No_ ," he said. "I'm perfectly capable of getting into bed on my own, thank you." He snapped his mouth shut. Maybe he'd been harsh just then. "Sorry, Cal."

Cal flicked his hands up. "It's fine," he said.

It wasn't fine, Ethan knew, but if he just went to bed and didn't speak to Cal it would blow over; it always did. Besides, Ethan wasn't feeling very well at all, and didn't feel up to being held responsible for his actions.

He trudged through to his bedroom, vaguely aware that he was beginning to stoop over from the pain. He stripped out of his clothes, cursing himself for the amount of layers and buttons he wore. He just wanted to sleep. It seemed the greatest of mercies that he had neglected – bleary and inattentive as he was that morning – to throw last night's pyjamas in the linen basket, instead leaving them on his pillow.

The bed was soft and cool against Ethan's head, which was in a jumbled state just shy of an ache. His abdomen, however, remained a throbbing reminder that his body hated him. He groaned as he tried to shuffle into a more comfortable position and succeeded only in jostling his poorly, hurting stomach. He stilled. His abdomen only shared the sentiment to a feeble extent, dulling into something akin to the irritant of a schoolmate who clicked his pen next to Ethan when he was trying to do his number bonds when they were little. Back then, Ethan had asked to move to sit next to someone less annoying, but his stomach was not engaging in such a kind mercy. At least, he thought, he could still consider it a background noise.

Such small mercies did not last long, and an hour in bed proved futile for his pained state. He half considered texting Cal and asking him to have a look for him, but… God, how could he have been so stupid? He was a doctor, he knew exactly what his pattern of symptoms had been, and yet no thoughts of Appendicitis had even touched upon his conscience until now. He took a long shallow breath and – taking the utmost care – kicked his bedcovers down to the end of the bed (to be made again when he was feeling better) and turned his lamp on. He pulled his pyjama top up to his chest and – heavens, his hands were shaking – took a close look at the state of his abdomen.

Bracing himself, he ghosted his hands down to his lower right side. He half wished he'd let Cal do this, as he faltered and let one of his hands fall to the bed. He drew his legs up to his chest, in the hope that it might relieve the pain to come. In a moment of clarity, he bit down on his pillowcase, curled his toes into 'fists' against the soles of his feet, and pressed down on his side. He thought he managed quite well at the surge of pain that lanced through his abdomen. He bit down even harder on the pillow, and then released his hand and – woe betide him – he couldn't prevent the scream that bubbled from his throat and ripped through the grate of his gritted teeth.

In the next moment that Ethan's head was clear enough to acknowledge anything going on around him, he was vaguely surprised to see Cal standing in his doorway looking as though he'd just walked in on a murder scene.

"Hi," panted Ethan.

Cal stared straight at Ethan, his eyebrows rising just a tiny bit and his eyes taking on the faintest glimmer of confusion. "You screamed."

"Yeah," said Ethan, and then – on seeing Cal's half confused, half irritated expression – added a "rebound tenderness."

Cal sighed and made his way over to the bed. "Let's get you into the ED." He sat down on Ethan's mattress and gripped his shoulder. Ethan groaned, but managed to sit up without help, even if it did take effort levels that would astound PE teachers around the globe. He sat propped up against the wall, breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Cal, could you please stand up?" he asked. As hard as he knew Cal was trying, Ethan was finding his choice of seating a nuisance.

Cal did so, deigning to lean against the wall next to Ethan's bedside table. He looked very out of place. Ethan put his glasses on and then began the slow and strenuous process of standing up.

It was half past eight by the time they arrived at the hospital, and Ethan was beginning to think that Cal was more relieved to be out of the car than he was and – given that he had spent the better part of the journey trying not to vomit all over the newspaper he had instructed Cal to lay out over his seat as a precaution in case of such circumstances – Ethan didn't think he was entitled to such patent worry.

Now, amidst various night time ailments: children having asthma attacks, business men who had waited for the day to end before having their broken bones looked at and the odd drug addict who'd come in off the streets, Ethan wished his stomach would settle down for just a moment so that he might switch into doctor mode and _help_ someone. He'd been useless as a doctor today and it felt like a tiny part of him was bitter and resentful of the fact as in the same way vampires were sated by blood, Ethan was sated by heroism, and a different tiny part of him was beginning to feel weak and unsatisfied. Well, most of him was feeling weak and unsatisfied.

He swallowed as hard as he could against the threatening nausea. Being ill in front of Cal was one thing – being ill in front of the rest of his colleagues another entirely. Eventually, he leaned back in against the hard white walls, closed his eyes, and breathed in and out as steadily as he could through gritted teeth. A hand brushed into his space, squeezing at his shoulder and making his nausea decidedly worse. His eyes opened into tiny slits.

"Stop fussing, Caleb," he said. His voice was strained and irritated, and he watched with a kind of frustrated satisfaction as Caleb deigned to rest his hand on his knee.

The next excruciating hour was passed in silence. Ethan's abdomen was getting worse as each second passed, and within ten minutes he had resorted to doubling over and resting his arms on his knees. It was the strength of Ethan's glare that lead to Cal continuing his doubtlessly violent video game with little more than a glance.

The next time someone roused Ethan, he was dismayed to find that sitting up was once again a chore.

Eventually, once he had raised his stone gargoyle of a torso, Ethan was able to order his mind enough to gain a semblance of what was going on. Lofty was kneeling in front of Ethan with a hand gripping his elbow, yet he seemed half focused on Cal. Ethan squinted and frowned, and then slipped his arm out of Lofty's grasp.

"Hi," said Ethan, and forced a smile.

Lofty smiled back – a real, genuine smile, not the forced one that Ethan had managed. "I thought you looked rough earlier – lucky you're not the one working the twelve hour shift," he said. He glanced up at Cal. "Are you okay to keep an eye on him whilst I go and get a wheelchair?"

Ethan shook his head. He was going to stay dignified for as long as he could before Lofty helped another of his colleagues to push down on his abdomen until he screamed. "No," he said. "I can walk."

Cal rolled his eyes and exchanged a smirk with Lofty. "Whatever you say, mate," said Lofty.

Once again, Ethan found that Lofty was gripping his elbow and Cal his shoulder. The two of them shared a quick glance which, much to Ethan's frustration, he found he wasn't able to read. And then, quite unexpectedly, Ethan was not bearing much of his own weight at all.

"Right," said Lofty to Cal. "Shall we get him up on three?"

Ethan couldn't repress a small cry of pain as his poor throbbing abdomen was stretched upwards like a bendy ruler being flexed back into position. The world before him exploded into a shower of white stars. He felt one of the hands leave his shoulder – Cal's, by the feel of it.

"I'm going to go and get that wheelchair," said Cal.

"No," said Ethan, in spite of the fact that even as he stood in place one of his knees was beginning to buckle in the direction of the lost support. "Don't," he gasped. "Just hold onto me, please." Cal almost left it a second too long, as Ethan began to crumble such that Lofty was becoming heavy with the weight of him. It was a small mercy when Ethan heard Cal's sigh in his ear and felt his hand click back into place on his upper arm.

Getting to the cubicle was perhaps the biggest challenge Ethan had faced at Holby City Hospital. Cal was rough and worried, making his movements too hasty and uncoordinated which, combined with Lofty's tender fumble, left his stomach screaming to be left alone. He had never felt such relief as he did in the moment when there were no longer any hands gripping him and ghosting over him.

Lofty squeezed his shoulder, perhaps in an attempt to make him feel more settled (it didn't) and made his way towards the cubicle's curtain. "I'll just go and get Mrs Beauchamp," he said.

Ethan groaned from the bed, prompting snickers from Lofty and Cal. It was funny for them, of course, but it was not at all funny for Ethan, who had been hoping for Dr Hanna, who wouldn't deign to inject tetrodotoxins into his IV bag.

"Oh," said Lofty, his fingers resting on the cubicle curtain. "Nice pyjamas, by the way."

And, by all accounts, they were indeed nice pyjamas.

When Mrs Beauchamp arrived with Lofty in tow, Cal was watching Ethan as intently as he could without running the risk of Ethan seeing him. This was to say, Cal could have been birdwatching because Ethan had his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that he thought he could have been pushing his brain all the way to the back of his skull.

"Hello, Dr Hardy," said Mrs Beauchamp, and then seemed to wrinkle her nose in disdain at the state of him. She glanced towards Lofty. "Lofty?"

Lofty seemed to snap into action, edging his way over to stand next to Ethan's head. "This is Ethan Hardy, 30, brought to the ED by his brother after experiencing severe abdominal pain and vomiting."

Ethan cracked his eyes open and grimaced, watching as Mrs Beauchamp pulled her gloves on.

"Right," said Mrs Beauchamp, making her way over to the bed. "You put people at risk, Dr Hardy," she chided. "If you'd told me you weren't feeling well, I would have let you go home."

Ethan thought he did a very good job of internalising his cringe. "Sorry, Mrs Beauchamp."

"It's fine," said Mrs Beauchamp, though it was too short for Ethan to have great peace of mind. "Do we have any suspected diagnoses?"

Cal nodded and squeezed Ethan's shoulders. "Yeah – there's tenderness to the Lower Right Quadrant so we're thinking Appendicitis."

"Okay," said Connie, her tongue dancing around her teeth. "Let's put that to the test."

Ethan gritted his teeth and clenched the blanket into his fists. Mrs Beauchamp looked down at him and frowned. Ethan glanced up and – noting her look of conclusion – frowned back at her. "I don't want to make a scene," he said.

Connie sighed and rubbed at her forehead. "You can have morphine, Dr Hardy," she said.

A snort came from across the room. Cal rubbed a hand over his mouth and nose, though he was fooling nobody. Ethan felt glad that _somebody_ was able to take pleasure in his misfortune and pain, even if he himself felt like he might scream or throw up at any moment. As Ethan's focus fell back to Mrs Beauchamp, he could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smirk vanish from her face.

"Can we get five of morphine and a litre of saline to start, please," said Mrs Beauchamp, and Lofty set to work administering it all.

By the time he had finished, Ethan was already feeling considerably more relaxed. He'd always found morphine a bit weird – the way it did that – but if it kept his pain rolled blunt he didn't have any complaints about it. When he next opened his eyes, Mrs Beauchamp's smirk seemed to be back.

"I'm going to start examining you now, okay?" said Mrs Beauchamp.

"Sure," said Ethan, and then – "yes, I mean. Yes, that's fine."

Somewhere above him, Ethan saw Cal's lips become stretched and very thin. Something cold and hard slotted into his earhole, and he almost pulled away from it before realising that it was probably the thermometer. He really, really hoped it was the thermometer.

A loud snort pulled him from the thought. Cal was rooting around in his bag, his eyes bright with… something – Ethan couldn't think about much in his state. It didn't look like anything Ethan wanted to be a part of, though. He blinked back at Mrs Beauchamp, whose entire face seemed to be under strain for supressing a smile.

"Can we not take films of NHS Staff without their permission, please, Dr Knight," said Mrs Beauchamp, clocking the phone in Cal's hand.

"Sorry, Mrs Beauchamp," said Cal. " _May I_ film this?"

" _No_ ," groaned Ethan, and he still had no idea why everyone was laughing, but he watched with a vague sense of satisfaction as Cal slipped his phone back into his bag.

"By the way," said Lofty, "it is definitely the thermometer."

Ethan relaxed, and then became tense again. "Am I speaking my thoughts out loud?"

Connie lowered herself to the dear and benevolent level of looking Ethan in the eye and curling her lips into the smallest of smiles. "We won't hold it against you," she said.

Ethan sighed and sank into the pillows, allowing himself to drift into a state of semi-awareness, and hoped Cal wouldn't think his being drugged out of his mind made him fair game for social media. Ethan didn't think he'd mind too much if Cal did. His brain was a warm rose tinted fuzz, leaving him totally uncaring about the world, even as his abdomen throbbed and various needles poked into his arms and –

"Ethan?"

Ethan blinked. What? "What?"

"Mrs Beauchamp wants to palpate your abdomen – will you let her do that?" said Lofty.

Ethan gave a noncommittal grunt. Yes, he would let Mrs Beauchamp do that because if he didn't let her he'd go back to work a week thereafter to his boss's disdain, but there was no part of him that liked the idea.

And then there were hands.

And then there was pain.

And then Ethan screwed his eyes very tightly shut, and when he opened them again, there were no longer smirks all around, and that suited Ethan just fine, even as Cal reached forwards and squeezed his upper arm. He smiled with clenched jaw.

"I'm fairly certain that's Appendicitis," said Connie. "But I'll arrange a CT scan just to be sure." With that, she was gone from the cubicle in a flash of curtain.

Ethan let his eyes slide closed again. For a blissful 30 seconds, he was unaware of what Cal and Lofty were saying around him; words like 'pale' and 'sick' washed through him, as though they were paint colours spreading and fading under the influence of water. Ethan's head felt heavy and disoriented – whether due to the fever or the morphine he didn't know – but he couldn't bring himself to care. The world was so far away from his brain anyway.

Such luxury was pulled out from under him by a cold hand on his face, and he blinked his eyes open to Lofty's forehead. He was, once again, exposed and vulnerable as if he had been cut from wet clothes before it had stopped raining.

"Do you feel sick?" said Lofty.

Ethan scrunched his eyes up. "What?"

"Do we need to have a bowl ready in case you throw up?"

Ethan thought for a moment. _Yes_ , there were still ripples of nausea behind the sheet of morphine, but from where he was – still and lying down – he didn't think there was much risk. Besides, he didn't want the embarrassment of making a big fuss over a bowl and then not even needing it.

"No," he moaned, and turned his head to the side. It was the wrong side. He came face to face with Cal, whose smirk had returned. He turned his head before Cal could say anything and pretending he didn't hear the trademark snort behind him. He closed his eyes and hoped that Lofty wasn't smiling behind him too.

He came into awareness to the uncomfortable undulation of something under him. He pushed down on his wrist, expecting to feel a band of fabric. Instead, he found thin plastic. He frowned and blinked his eyes open to white walls. This was not a boat. He turned his head upwards to see a porter – it was someone he knew, he could tell that much – grinning down at him. Everything was a bit blurry.

"You're awake," said the porter. "We're just taking you up to CT."

Ethan groaned and rubbed at his face. "Where are my glasses?"

"Cal's got them."

"Why's Cal got them," slurred Ethan, and he was sure he saw the porter grin at someone walking by. Ethan frowned, and then he felt his heart start to thud. "I'm allergic to CT contrast!" he cried, trying to look for someone to help him – someone medically qualified, not a porter.

A warm hand squeezed at his shoulder. "We know, mate." Lofty. "Nobody's given you contrast dye, okay?"

"Okay," said Ethan, and wished he'd been awake before so that someone could have told him. He hoped the bed stopped moving soon.

It did, when he was in the room, and then he was under the scanner and very, very pleased that he wasn't claustrophobic. White was all around him. A year ago he had thought that he was dying under the CT scanner. Everything was white and clean and he could feel himself getting dizzier and dizzier and his chest was hurting more and more. It wasn't like that now. Everything was white and he felt very fuzzy and very sick and he hoped he wouldn't make the scanner dirty if he was sick.

Of course, the bed started moving again because _apparently_ he couldn't stay in the scanner all night. He would beg to differ, but on _Lofty's_ orders, he was to let them move the bed.

Once again, his hatred of the moving bed hit him like a ton of bricks. His stomach had begun to slosh about again, and he held fast and tight to the rails of the bed, as if it might calm the disquiet of his stomach. Halfway down the hall, he realised the situation was more dire than he'd initially thought. He clamped down on his lip and practised breathing. He'd once bought a programme on calming anxiety, and maybe – just maybe – if he practiced the same breathing exercises here, he might be okay.

"Ethan, mate?"

Ethan shut his eyes, trying to block Lofty out. He was a distraction, instrumental in his stomach's rebellion, and he swallowed convulsively against the rising threat.

"Ethan, do you need me to get you a bowl?"

Ethan gritted his teeth. "I'm fine."

Ethan heard the chink of the curtain against the rail, and then the bed came to a stop. There was relief for a moment, and then the jolt of the brakes against the mattress. The dam held out just long enough for Ethan to lean over the edge of the bed. When next he was once again inhibited, he managed to lift his head just for long enough to have a look around the cubicle.

"Well," said Mrs Beauchamp. "At least we know you have nothing in your stomach for surgery."

Fluttering of fingers and hands brushed and flitted around Ethan, and Mrs Beauchamp was saying something strained and incomprehensible above him. When Ethan dared a peek down at the floor, he understood why. He didn't dare cast his mind to how expensive Mrs Beauchamp's shoes were – _were_ being the operative word. Around him, he thought he was just about able to hear Cal and Lofty giggling again.

"Ethan," said Mrs Beauchamp – and Ethan finally, _finally_ understood how there were people who were not afraid of her at her worst. They had heard that voice say their name in that tone, and – Ethan assumed – they had buckled and caved and shaken. When at last they emerged, Ethan imagined the clean catharsis of no longer being afraid of the snarl. He opened his eyes and stared straight at Mrs Beauchamp, bidding the creature go back to the cave from whence it came.

"We've called for a porter to take you to surgery." She paused. "You've been lucky – it's a slow day on Keller."

Ethan didn't feel lucky. He felt sick. The thought of a nice general anaesthetic and a week off work was all that was keeping him going. Being pumped full of morphine and able to catch up on admin and never, ever see Mrs Beauchamp again was full of saccharine appeal.

This time, when Mrs Beauchamp left, he found himself utterly unable to sleep. A cleaner was knelt on the floor beside his trolley and he was _sure_ he kept hearing Cal and Lofty's snickers. The world around him was buzzing and racing, and he was not floating off into the grey fluff of a wide dreamscape. Not that he remembered his dreams – though he was not prone to any particular memory of his dreams when not drugged up past his eyeballs and through past his hairline, too, he had been hoping that he might see something unusual.

"I want to sleep," murmured Ethan, half-hoping that Cal and Lofty might be able to wrangle a general anaesthetic into him a bit earlier.

Cal squeezed at Ethan's wrist – a genuine, sympathetic squeeze, such that Ethan was completely lost for words for a moment; he was, by his own admission, frequently in such a state, but this was different – he didn't have thoughts racing around his head. It was TV static and not much else.

"You'll be up on an anaesthetic within the next hour, alright?"

It was, very nearly, not alright, in Ethan's mind. _Not_ Ethan's mind – the Appendicitis's mind, and he was sure that the Appendicitis really did have a mind of its own. Ethan was rational, measured, understanding, patient: a whole cornucopia of the old independent church grammar school's values and virtues. It was a shame that he was never quite able to keep up with the other boys' fast-paced banter.

"I think you keep up with us pretty well," said Lofty. Ethan smiled. Lofty was very kind an awful lot of the time. Ethan appreciated kindness as a deeply important virtue – his mother had always insisted it was a virtue that Cal had in spades, but Ethan had not been able to understand as much for a very long time – not until after she'd passed. "Wouldn't you say he keeps up well, Cal?"

Cal shrugged. "You bob along, I guess."

Edit: _still_ didn't understand.

He had been about to bite back at Cal for his rudeness, but – to his disappointment – he was disturbed by a porter bustling in. It wasn't Max like it had been earlier. Ethan wondered for a moment whether Lofty would have asked Max for his opinion on Ethan's banter-skills. Part of him thought Max would side with Cal. His loss. Ethan was _brilliant_ at banter, just not banter about football and beer. That is what he told himself (and Cal, repeatedly) the whole journey up to Keller.

Upon reaching Keller, Ethan was pleased to note that his doctor was as tall as Cal. He would not be without protection if things went wrong.

"It is not about my size, Dr Hardy, but my _hands_ ," said the surgeon, and then gave a sheepish smile and slipped his hands into his pockets. "I'm Mr Levy, and I'll be getting that appendix out," said Mr Levy, and Ethan once again felt much calmer knowing that the man had a Hebrew name and a fine constitution. Mother had always placed good stock in a man with a good Hebrew name, and as such Ethan thought it a wonder that she had married a man named Robert.

Mum had never really placed much stock in their father, though, thought Ethan. Shame.

"Ethan," said Cal. His tone held an edge of warning.

"Sorry," murmured Ethan. He hadn't realised he had been speaking out loud. Mr Levy looked like a cat who was contemplating the cream's expiry date.

"Right!" said Mr Levy, and clapped his hands. "We'll get you settled and then we'll take you into surgery; we'll try to do it as non-invasively as possible, but I'm sure you know that there are always risks to surgery."

Ethan stared. He definitely recognised the words, but nothing was quite fitting together in the way that it should. He flicked his eyes over to Cal, who snorted and smirked up at Mr Levy.

"It means he'll do his best not to slice you up too much but if it's green or crumbling…" Cal raised an eyebrow and shrugged, and Ethan really wished that his mouth wouldn't do the thing that it really, always seemed to be doing.

Ethan paled. He didn't like the sound of his appendix being green and crumbling.

Mr Levy held up a hand and gave Cal a stern look. " _Which_ , from your CT scan, it doesn't look to be."

Ethan tried to burrow and sink into his pillow as far as he could. If his eyes were wide and his forehead was beginning to accumulate a small sheen of sweat, he couldn't bring himself to care too much. "You will get it out of me if it's green and crumbling, won't you?" The part of him that was still Ethan was more than aware of how childish he sounded, but Mr Levy had a kind face and fluffy hair and a silly shirt on.

Mr Levy gave another of his reassuring smiles. "We will do our very best to get it out of you whether it's green and crumbling or just red and swollen, Dr Hardy."

Ethan nodded. "Thank you," he breathed.

Mr Levy glanced at a little nurse and smiled at the porter, and then smiled down at Ethan. "I think we're going to prep you for surgery, now," he said.

Soon enough, the world had acquired odd fuzz –that wasn't caused by his glasses not being on. He had never been particularly scared of being dragged under by the anaesthetic. Cal was, he knew, but then Cal was always difficult and restless and he was so highly strung as a child that Ethan had frequently felt sorry for their poor mother.

Mr Levy and the little nurse both giggled, and he was sure that she mouthed a name at him, but with the combination of the drugs and the Cal-possessed glasses, Ethan couldn't for the life of him make out what they were saying.

It didn't really matter, on balance, he thought. The world was…

The world was heavy. The world was very, very heavy. He was brittle and weighted all at the same time, like a hollow femur. He was pleased to note that his stomach was no longer throbbing, but the world was still much darker than Ethan would have liked.

"It's really dark," he murmured. He edged his hand to the edge of the covers, searching for aid in his quest for sight. He found nothing. His hand flopped over the side of the bed and flapped about unceremoniously, looking for a lifeline.

"You awake?" said a voice from the side of his bed. Ethan relaxed. He wasn't completely alone.

"I can't see," he said. His voice was strained, and he was not embarrassed in the slightest that his throat was tight with panic and tearfulness. "Cal," he pleaded, "I can't see."

He was absolutely scandalised when Cal tore into heavy laughter beside him. Ethan might have been _blind_ , and Cal was laughing. This, he thought, he the reason he had hated Cal so much and for so long – Ethan's pending disability was a _joke_ to him.

"Ethan," said Cal, his laughter subsiding for the shortest of seconds.

"What?" said Ethan, and he was edgy, and cross, and he couldn't think.

"Open your eyes."

Oh. He blinked them open and threw a hand up to shield his eyes (left, mercifully) from the shocking fluorescent lights. Well. Cal was still a horrible, awful, terrible, disgusting brother. _Definitely._

Once Ethan had grown accustomed to the blinding light, he let his hand flop back onto the bed. Cal was sitting next to his bed in one of those itchy blue chairs held together with laminated wood. Ethan hadn't used one of those since his old school library, and he thought it was fantastic punishment for Caleb to have to sit in one of those for a few hours.

His eyes widened for a moment, and he clasped Cal's wrist. "Was it green and crumbling?" he asked. He didn't want to have been green and crumbling. That would be disgusting, and he'd have to stay in the hospital with a nurse reading through his allergy list every time he had a meal for more than two days.

"I've not looked," said Cal. "You've not been cut up too much though."

Ethan relaxed. He wouldn't have to stay for too long. Hospitals were a horrible place to sleep, and he imagined all of the junior doctors would find him terribly boring with his routine illness and operation.

"Mate, you're boring anyway."

Possessed by some immaculate childishness, Ethan stuck his tongue firmly out in Caleb's direction. Cal snorted.

"You're going to be so much fun once you're off the morphine," said Cal.

Ethan nodded, only half-aware that Cal was even speaking to him. The thought that next came into his head threw him pale and shimmering with sweat. It lanced through his head and seemed to plummet down to the very depths of his stomach. "Cal," he said; his voice urgent and panicked. "Cal – Mrs Beauchamp…"

Cal smirked, but it seemed to hold an edge of sympathy. "It's probably a good thing that you're not going to be at work from the next week or so."

Ethan swallowed, his throat sticking. He had thrown up on his boss's shoes. His boss, who was rich and tall and beautiful, and Ethan had been no better than a drunk. "How expensive were those shoes?" he whispered, his voice trembling and fragile.

"£550," said Cal, and Ethan felt a stab of anger shudder through him at the way Cal's lip twitched into a faint smile, as if he was trying to hold back laughter.

"It's not funny, Cal!" whined Ethan. "I'm going to die – she's going to kill me, and you're _laughing_!"

A loud snort ripped from Cal's sinuses, and he raised a hand up to cover his mouth and his nose. "You threw up on her shoes, Ethan!"

Ethan turned his head away from Cal. He wasn't going to sit and be _mocked_ over his imminent death – and he _was_ going to die. If Mrs Beauchamp didn't hold a trial for him, then he would be lynched by anyone who'd ever worn an expensive pair of heels.

He buried his head in his pillow, and was just drifting back to sleep when he was roused by a buzzing from the table next to him. He blinked his eyes open just in time to see Cal taking his phone off the table. Cal's face paled very slightly, though a smile was still playing on his lips.

"She's expecting you to pay."

 **Thank you for reading! Reviews welcome!**


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